The Stolen - Jason Pinter [116]
sleeping at the office because I couldn't face my own bed.
Then, I wondered, how many nights had Jack O'Donnell had just like that?
When I got to Jack's building, I buzzed his apartment,
dying to see that grizzled face in the hopes that it would
all make sense. There was no answer. I buzzed again. Still
nothing.
I took out my cell phone and rang his house line. It went
right to voice mail.
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"Jack," I said. "This is Henry. Please call me back. I
need to speak to you. Please tell me you're all right."
I clicked off the phone and took one last look at the
building. Then I turned around and went back to work.
The old man stood by the window for a long time,
watching the boy walk away until he'd disappeared from
sight. When Henry Parker turned the corner, he stepped
back into his apartment. His body was racked with convulsions, the sobs like mortar rounds. Then Jack O'Donnell slid down the wall until his frail, arthritic knees were
tucked up under his chin, and he began to cry.
46
Though I hadn't been a reporter that long, I can honestly
say I'd had some long days on the job. The longest weren't
the ones where I was on deadline, typing page after page
or sifting through an entire casebook worth of notes. The
longest days were those where nothing happened. I wasn't
waiting for a source to call back. I wasn't waiting for
Legal to approve a story. I wasn't waiting on anyone or
anything. The day just passed.
Today was perhaps the longest of my career. Every few
minutes I would turn around to look at that empty desk,
wishing upon nothing that Jack would appear magically
and just start writing. There would be no story written by
Jack O'Donnell in tomorrow's edition, or next week's
papers, or any for the foreseeable future.
I was merely a soldier who, until today, had been
following the example set by Wallace Langston and Jack
O'Donnell. But our ranks had been broken. And who knew
if it would ever be repaired.
I left the Gazette at five o'clock on the dot. The first day
I could ever remember leaving on time. The train ride
home was lonely. More so when I saw people reading the
very paper that had changed the landscape of my world.
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When I stepped off the train, the sun was already beginning to set, and any day now the summer sun would
begin to fade into fall. I walked down the street, my bag
heavy, not caring where I stepped, my eyes looking no
more than two feet in front of me.
Rounding the corner onto my block, I was surprised to
hear a voice call out, "Careful, there, I see a hydrant with
your name on it."
I looked up to see Amanda standing in front of my
building, her hair rippling lightly in the wind, her face
golden in the orange haze. If there was one sight that could
melt away a man's sorrows, it was that one.
She was wearing tight jeans and a red sweater. Walking
closer, I recognized the sweater. I'd given it to her on our
six-month anniversary. That seemed like ages ago.
"What are you doing here?" I said, silently chiding
myself for the impatient tone in my voice.
"I thought you could use someone to talk to tonight,"
she said. "I saw the newspaper."
I nodded, only because there was nothing else to say.
Amanda approached me, put her hand on my shoulder; the
other hand tilted my chin upward.
"I'm sorry," she said. "I know what Jack meant to you."
"He'll get things together," I said softly. "He has to."
"I hope he does. I guess at some point everyone needs
to take stock of their life."
"I've been doing a little of that," I said.
"Me, too."
I looked up at her. "Why you?"
"I don't know," she said, brushing a strand of brown
hair from her eyes. "At this point in my life, I want to think
about what I have. What I want. What I have that I don't
want. What I want that I don't have."
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Jason Pinter
"What do you want?" I said.
She smiled demurely. "I'm not a hundred percent sure,"
she said. "I didn't say it happened all in one day. But I
wanted to wait for you. I thought it might be a nice way
to end